


Remembering

by ThornWild



Series: Moments [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post: s05e22 The Gift, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike sits in his crypt and tries to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering

He sits in his crypt in the darkness. Alone, just him and his thoughts, as always. He’s counting. Counting the days, and the hours, and the minutes. Counting the seconds since she’s been gone. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three-hundred-and-thirty-six hours. Twenty-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixty minutes. One-million-two-hundred-and-nine-thousand-six-hundred seconds. Six-hundred-and-one. Six-hundred-and-two. Six-hundred-and-three…

If he stops counting, he’ll see her fall. When he sleeps, if he sleeps, he dreams about it. He dreams about getting there a moment sooner. He dreams that he never let the Doc reach Dawn. He dreams about catching Buffy before she falls. But when he wakes up, he remembers that he didn’t. That he couldn’t. That she’s gone. 

It hurts more than anything has ever hurt him before. An ache, deep in his gut, that won’t go away. He feels nothing else. Even if he could kill, the thrill of it would be gone. He doesn’t want to do anything. Doesn’t want to hunt. Doesn’t even want to feed. His refrigerator is full of pig’s blood that’s starting to go off.

Six-hundred-and-thirty. Six-hundred-and-thirty-one…

There comes a knock on his door. At first he doesn’t even react. He continues to stare off into nothingness, counting the seconds. Six-hundred-and-thirty-six.

‘Spike?’ 

He halts in his counting, blinking. No… Not her! Not that thing…

‘Go away!’ he calls. ‘You’re not her…’

Willow put the Buffybot back together as soon as she was able. If the demon population of Sunnydale knew that the Slayer was gone, that there was nothing to stop them anymore, everything would be over. So the robot patrols. Unfortunately it has a tendency to wander off to his crypt in the wee hours of the morning. He supposes it’s seeking familiar ground. Willow has tried to change its programming to make it less focused on him, but it doesn’t seem to have helped.

‘But I’ve been killing vamps, and I’m all hot and bothered. It’s time for you to ravage me!’

Anger flares inside him. He would gladly tear the thing’s head off again if it would make it stop trying to be here. If it would stop reminding him of his sickness, his loss, his pain.

‘I said, go away!’ he bellows. ‘You’re not allowed to come here anymore, just sod off back home!’ His voice cracks. The sound of her voice, her voice that isn’t really hers, is too much for him to bear. The memories come streaming back, memories of Buffy, her face, her smile, her golden hair and gleaming eyes, and her lips pressed lightly against his – her forgiveness. And just for a moment, he wants to ask the robot to come in, so he can take comfort in her, because even though she’s not the real Buffy she’s the closest that he’s ever going to get.

He leans forward in his chair, his face in his hands, as a violent sob shakes his body. There are no more sounds from outside. Buffybot must have given up. He can taste his own salty tears on his lips. Lips… He remembers Buffy’s lips.

He needs to keep counting. Where was he? Six-hundred-and-thirty-six, but it’s been at least a minute since he was interrupted. Six-hundred-and-ninety? Or has he passed One-million-two-hundred-and-nine-thousand-seven-hundred already?

He shivers, which is odd for someone who has no body temperature in the first place.

Buffy, the real Buffy, only kissed him once, aside from that time when they were both out of their minds and thought they wanted to get married. Just the one time, and just a small, chaste peck on the lips. But it’s enough. The memory of it is so vivid, so clear in his mind, that he can almost feel them. Her lips. Soft and warm, and forgiving.

Spike doesn’t have a soul, but he knows hers. The brightest, kindest soul the world has ever seen. And he loves her soul, as much as he loves her mind and her body. Spike is evil, or he’s supposed to be, but he loves her goodness. Her capacity for love and sacrifice. He just wishes she wouldn’t have had to use it so effectively.

And it starts all over, the pictures in his mind, of Buffy, falling.

His cheeks are wet. He can’t stop the tears from coming. He wants it to end, he wants these feelings to go away. He wants to be himself again, but he can’t. He can never be himself again, because all that’s inside of him now is her.

He needs to feel something other than this despair, this ache in his chest and his gut and the dark hole where his soul should be. And so he conjures up an image of her, in his head. Of Buffy, alive and smiling, walking towards him, embracing him, holding him close, filling his cold, dead flesh with warmth. He unzips his jeans. Holds himself. Holds that image in his mind, working for his release, to make him feel something else, something real. Something that isn’t death and grief and pain. Something. Anything. If only for a moment.

When he is spent, he closes his eyes, and begins to count again.

One… Two… Three…


End file.
